Don't Want To Wake Up Lonely
by poetzproblem
Summary: With any luck, Santana will eventually have her own wife to appreciate. One who will feed her and entertain her and keep her from showing up at their apartment unannounced at the most inconvenient times—oh, and love and cherish her too of course. And if Rachel gets to claim permanent bragging rights for introducing Santana to the future Mrs. Doctor Lopez, then even better. 26 of DB
1. The Nights Are Getting Shorter

**Author's Note:** Set after _Getting Crazy By the Bottom of the Bottle_ and before the ficlet _If I'm A Fool For Love._ It's two parts, and heavily Santana-centric, especially part II. You've been warned.

Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Glee_ or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

* * *

 **Don't Want To Wake Up Lonely**

* * *

 _I don't want to wake up lonely.  
_ _I don't want to just be fine.  
_ _I don't want to keep on hoping.  
_ _Forget what I had in mind.  
_ _~Mother & Father, Broods_

* * *

 **Part I: The Nights Are Getting Shorter**

* * *

This isn't exactly Rachel's first choice of desirable ways to spend her evening off. If it was strictly up to her, she and Quinn would have stayed inside their warm, cozy apartment to enjoy an intimate dinner before thoroughly enjoying one another, never mind that they'd already spent the better part of the morning doing exactly that. The honeymoon is still very far from being over—well, the metaphorical honeymoon at any rate. The real one, the one that she's been planning since their wedding last summer, is happening just as soon as her contract with _Funny Girl_ ends in exactly five weeks.

Rachel is a little sad to be saying goodbye to her dream role. Fanny has brought her a moderate degree of fame and that gorgeous, shiny Tony sitting in the center of her awards shelf, but after more than a year and a half of six days and eight performances a week, she's ready for a change. She already has a few irons in the fires of potential new projects, but first she's going to enjoy a much needed vacation. She can't wait to take Quinn to Paris and watch those beloved hazel eyes sparkle with delight.

Rachel can never seem to resist those eyes—or anything else in Quinn's vast arsenal of appealing qualities—which is why she's currently bundled up inside her winter coat and dodging the slush and ice on the sidewalks in Chelsea instead of cuddled up with her wife on their sofa on this snowy, January evening.

She shoves her hands deeper into her pockets to battle her shivers as she walks next to Quinn. The taxi driver had dropped them off on the corner of the block instead of fighting the traffic jam that had snarled up the intersection, and while they really don't have far to walk, the frigid temperature makes their destination seem much farther away than it actually is. "We couldn't have come on a warmer night?" she grumbles.

Quinn glances in her direction with an affectionate smile, sending her blonde hair flying into a face that's quickly turning pink from the bite of the wind. "We could have, but today is the opening, and you promised to come with me after I agreed to that Fred and Ginger film festival last week."

"You enjoyed that," Rachel accuses playfully. Quinn not-so-secretly loves those classic films from the golden age of Hollywood as much as Rachel loves musicals, so it had been a pleasant experience for both of them.

"I enjoyed what came after it more," Quinn reminds her with a sexy smirk, referring to the way they'd spent the rest of the evening engaged in their own version of dancing cheek-to-cheek. "And I _know_ you'll enjoy tonight."

A (very) tiny bit of heat manages to register through the chill in certain parts of Rachel's body, and she quickens her pace to their destination. The sooner they get there, the sooner they can get home, and Rachel can discover what enjoyable activities Quinn has planned for later.

It's only another minute of walking before they're standing in front of the Agora Gallery. The local artist whose painting Quinn's publisher had used for the dustjacket of her latest novel is having a showing here tonight, and Aileen had sent Quinn the information about the opening event in case she wanted to show her support. After all, her novel is still bouncing around on the top of the bestsellers list after three months with Malcolm Holt's artwork on the front. They might as well see what his other paintings entail.

When they step inside the building, they're greeted by a blast of warm air, and Rachel exhales in relief, pulling her hands out of her pockets and briskly rubbing them together to generate a little extra heat. Quinn grins knowingly, shaking her head. "I told you to wear gloves," she admonishes as she tugs off her own.

"I _thought_ we'd be getting dropped off at the door," Rachel points out.

She glances around the gallery, taking in the clean, white walls decorated with strategically spaced paintings that splash contrasting colors through the otherwise monochromatic space. There are a good number of people already inside, gathered in small clumps in front of the paintings—several with drinks in their hands as they discuss the artwork. To the left of the door is a shelf lined with booklets advertising the gallery and proclaiming the name of this particular exhibition to be _Stripped_. Rachel raises an eyebrow at that while Quinn reaches out to take one of the booklets, thumbing through it with interest.

"Hello and welcome to Agora," greets a well-dressed, middle-aged woman with black, horn-rimmed glasses who's made her way over to them. "My name is Georgia. I'm the curator here," she introduces with a polite smile. "Please feel free to enjoy the exhibition at your leisure. There are drinks and hors d'oeuvres on our second floor, and all of our featured artists are here tonight and available to answer questions about their work. If you have any questions about the gallery or wish to purchase any of the pieces, I encourage you to come and find me."

Quinn offers the woman a cordial, "Thank you," and Georgia nods before she turns her attention to the nearest group of people analyzing what looks like a blob of green and blue spirals that must somehow fit the theme of the evening.

Rachel unbuttons her coat as she follows Quinn farther inside the gallery. Everyone else is either still wearing theirs or carrying them looped over their arms, and she's still frosty enough from the weather outside to be comfortable keeping hers on for now. She's sure that she'll be shrugging it off eventually, especially if those drinks upstairs are of the alcoholic variety.

Quinn seems content to slowly move around the lower level, pausing in front of each painting to fully take it in before referring to the program in her hand.

Rachel is content to watch Quinn.

It's not that she doesn't like art—she does—but she won't deny that she has a preference for paintings that actually look like something. Most of the ones that she's seen so far are entirely abstract. "These aren't Malcolm's," she notes, reading the artist's name on the little plaque on the wall beside one of the paintings. "Aurelius Palmer is certainly fond of spirals."

Quinn tips her head thoughtfully as she studies the painting currently in front of them. "They obviously represent the path from the material world to spiritual enlightenment. You can almost feel yourself being led to a higher consciousness."

Rachel eyes her wife skeptically. "It's a big, orange corkscrew."

"It's a soul stripped down to its fundamental journey," Quinn insists, but the corner of her mouth is noticeably twitching.

Rachel's gaze narrows. "You're just making this up, aren't you?"

Quinn flashes a delighted smile. "Absolutely. It's a big, orange corkscrew."

Rachel laughs, shaking her head as she curls her hand into Quinn's elbow. "Come on. Let's go find Malcolm's work and maybe those drinks." Quinn quickly nods her agreement, and they set off in search of what Rachel hopes will be more appealing paintings.

There's a narrow staircase in the back corner of the gallery, hidden behind the maze of white exhibition walls, and in order to climb it, they have to step around a couple of young, urban hipsters who are milling around while they discuss snowshoeing in the Adirondacks. The area on the second floor is more open than the downstairs, peppered with a few small sculptures in the middle of the room. The small table with drinks and hors d'oeuvres is set up in front of the railing between two low divider walls.

Right at the top of the staircase is a colorful painting of clashing hues streaked into a crisscross design that almost makes it look like a wild plaid except for a darker patch in the center that appears to be a silhouette hidden beneath the pattern. It's almost like one of those wildly patterned pictures with the hidden three-dimensional images that Rachel never can seem to discern, no matter how hard or how long she stares at them. The artist on the plaque beside the painting reads Malcolm Holt.

"Resplendence," Quinn murmurs, softly reciting the title of the painting.

"Well, it's certainly…colorful," Rachel comments tactfully.

"It is," Quinn agrees neutrally. "It kind of reminds me of your high school wardrobe."

Rachel reaches over to poke Quinn's side. "Very funny."

Quinn squirms away from her touch with a barely restrained giggle, and then she catches her lower lip between her teeth before she offers a mischievous grin, winking at Rachel. "You know how much I loved those skirts."

"You loved _me_ in those skirts," Rachel reminds her wife impishly, thinking of the small stash of high school era skirts that had been rescued from her childhood bedroom and safely tucked away into the bottom drawer of her dresser as a testament to just how much Quinn _still does_ love her in those skirts.

"Actually, I prefer you out of them," Quinn husks, leaning close enough for the low timbre of her voice to tease against Rachel's ear.

Rachel's eyelids flutter shut as little shivers of pleasure race down her spine. "Mmm…careful, baby, your kink is showing," she warns, gazing at Quinn through her lashes. Museums and art galleries always do seem to inspire Quinn in the most interesting ways—not that Rachel is complaining.

"Speaking of kink," Quinn chuckles, tipping her chin in the direction of the next painting.

Curious, Rachel turns to look, eyes widening at the sight of a nude woman painted in an almost abstract style and surrounded by a background of deep magentas, fiery reds, and mint green. "Oh. My," she breathes. "Is that the same artist?"

Quinn glances at the plaque and nods. "Apparently he has a thing for clashing colors and erotica."

"Erotica with questionable anatomic proportions," Rachel points out, eyeing the woman's rather large breasts and practically non-existent waist with suspicion. She surreptitiously glances around the room, wondering which one of the gentlemen up here is actually the artist. "I can't believe this is the same person who did your book cover."

The art for Quinn's last novel, _Ribbons of Fate_ , is a minimalistic portrait of a small girl in a white dress, sitting on the ground, knees drawn up and head buried in her arms. A tattered green ribbon is wrapped around one leg and snakes across the cover on a winding path down to a pair of scissors left open and abandoned at the end of the cut ribbon. The muted colors and realist technique are completely opposite of the paintings that Rachel is currently looking at.

"His style is certainly diverse," Quinn concedes, glancing along the wall at the next two paintings which also feature very colorful, very naked people in odd positions.

"We are not buying any of these," Rachel decides, putting her foot down.

"Probably not," Quinn hedges, still staring at the paintings with unexpected interest.

Rachel crosses her arms, glaring at Quinn. " _Definitely_ not."

Quinn smirks. "There's always _Resplendence_ ," she reminds her, gesturing back at the first painting.

And now that Rachel looks at it again, the darker silhouette beneath the plaid does look decidedly lady-shaped. "No," she refuses. There will be no nudes on display inside their apartment. Well—no nudes that aren't _them,_ and only in the flesh.

Quinn laughs, reaching out to pry Rachel's fisted hand out of its tucked position inside of her crossed arms and effectively loosening her defensive stance. "Come on," she urges, linking their hands together. "Let's check out the rest of the exhibition while we're here, and then we can head to the restaurant."

"Didn't you want to meet Malcolm?" Rachel reluctantly prompts. She might not be a fan of the paintings on display here, but she can't deny that she did like the one that Aileen had chosen for Quinn's book.

"He's probably busy explaining his work," Quinn muses, directing Rachel's gaze to a man with disheveled brown hair and a soul patch under his lower lip who's currently standing in front of the last painting in the row and gesturing empathically to the couple he's speaking with. "I don't think we really need to interrupt if we're not going to buy anything."

"That's him?" Rachel asks with a thoughtful frown. She didn't think soul patches were still a thing.

Quinn nods. "I think so. Aileen did say he looked a little like Shaggy from _Scooby-Doo_."

Rachel barks out a loud laugh, quickly pressing a hand to her mouth when more than a few people turn to look at her with censuring frowns. Quinn giggles much more quietly and leads Rachel away from the nudes, snagging them both a drink from the nearby table before they stop in front of another group of paintings somewhat more to Rachel's tastes. They're painted in much darker tones than Malcolm's work, and they each depict scenes of city life—or well, city life stripped of its actual _life_. Each painting features lonely buildings and deserted streets and—oh, an empty theatre. "I definitely like this artist better," she decides immediately.

"Why am I not surprised?" Quinn teases, glancing at Rachel with an indulgent smile.

Rachel shrugs. "I can't help that I prefer realism, Quinn." She considers the painting in front of her again. "Though perhaps not quite so…gloomy."

"I'd say they're more moody than gloomy," Quinn argues, examining the painting of the theatre. "This one reminds me of the night you proposed."

Rachel looks at Quinn, surprised. "Really?"

Quinn glances back to her with soft expression. "An empty theatre will never _not_ remind of that," she admits tenderly.

Rachel feels a wave of affection wash over her as she remembers the night in question—the dark theatre and the stage and, most importantly, Quinn's loving _yes_ right before Rachel had slipped the diamond engagement ring onto her finger. She gazes at the little plaque next to the painting, tickled when she sees that it's titled _Fermata_. "T.S. Rinaldi," she reads out loud before returning her attention to the painting. It more closely resembles the stage at the Majestic than the Winter Garden, but she can certainly see why it would remind Quinn of the night of their engagement. She can almost see herself standing there inside the painting. "He does have a very expressive style, doesn't he?"

" _She_ , actually," comes an unexpected (and oddly familiar) voice from behind them, "but thank you for the compliment, Rachel Berry."

Rachel immediately spins around to see an attractive brunette with pale, blue eyes staring back at her with an amused grin. It only takes a few seconds for recognition to smack her in the face. "Oh, my God! Teresa?" she gasps in surprise, tugging at Quinn's hand in excitement. "Quinn! It's Teresa the bartender!"

"I can see that, Rachel," Quinn responds wryly, her own eyes busy assessing the woman in front of them.

It's been a good three years at least since they'd last seen her, and she'd been pouring drinks in the East Village at the time. Her hair is shorter than Rachel remembers, but the style looks good on her. Her black slacks are topped with a form-fitting vest over a stark, white button down that's been left untucked (and mostly unbuttoned) and pokes out from under the edges of the vest. The look is very hipster professional. Rachel can't deny that the years seem to have treated Teresa very well, but she probably won't bother to mention her opinion to Quinn unless Quinn happens to bring it up first.

"You're the artist?" Rachel realizes with a growing smile.

"I am," Teresa confirms with a nod, still grinning. "Teresa Rinaldi," she informs them, offering her hand in polite greeting. "It's nice to officially meet you." Rachel takes her hand reflexively, giving it a firm but brief shake.

"So I guess you're mixing paint instead of drinks now," Quinn comments.

"I still mix drinks too," Teresa reveals unapologetically, letting go of Rachel's hand and dropping hers to her side when Quinn makes no move to extend her own. "Bartending pays all those pesky bills that my art doesn't quite cover yet." She smiles affably, gesturing to the painting of the theatre. "And on that note, this is the part where I attempt to convince you to buy this painting that you've been admiring."

Quinn chuckles. "Very smooth sales pitch."

Teresa shrugs. "I suppose I could have tried to butter you up first by telling you that I think your latest book is amazing. I read it in one sitting when I should have been painting," she admits unabashedly. "You're a very talented writer."

A faint blush stains Quinn's cheeks at the unsolicited compliment. "Thank you," she says graciously. "If you made that connection then I guess you also read the dustjacket."

Teresa's eyebrows furrow in mild confusion. "Was I not supposed to?"

Rachel stifles a laugh. "Quinn likes to think that no one will recognize her since she insists on using a pseudonym when she writes," she explains.

Teresa's expression clears, and she nods in understanding. "Well, it did help that I remembered meeting you before I ever saw your photo on the book jacket. Both of you," she reminds them with a friendly smile. "By the way, congratulations on your Tony win, Rachel," she adds. "I saw you as Fanny last May, and you were spectacular."

Rachel positively beams at her, always pleased to hear how fabulous she is. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

"Other than her Sangria, you mean?" Quinn jokes with an arched brow.

"It's still the best in Manhattan," Teresa boasts. "You should stop by Weather Up in Tribeca sometime. I'll make you one on the house for old-time sake," she offers generously—even though Quinn never once allowed the woman to give them anything on the house during the small handful of times they'd returned to Ten Degrees with Santana.

"So that's where you disappeared to," Quinn notes with casual interest.

"Well, there and here, of course," Teresa qualifies, gesturing around them to indicate the gallery. "I tried to let some of my regulars know where I was going to be when I left, but I obviously missed a few of them," she confesses with a wistful smile.

Well, _Rachel_ would call it wistful. In fact, she's absolutely _going_ to call it wistful because there's really only one regular that Teresa would bother to refer to in this particular situation. She and Quinn were _hardly_ regulars.

"You know, our friend Santana still mentions you from time to time," Rachel mentions innocently.

Quinn's eyes immediately flash with wary recognition. "Rachel," she warns lowly.

Okay—so maybe the mention isn't _exactly_ innocent. "You remember, Santana, don't you?" Rachel pushes, ignoring her wife's eyes silently screaming at her not to go where Quinn knows she's going to go.

"I remember her terrible pickup lines," Teresa quips drolly.

"She's a doctor now, you know," Rachel informs her proudly.

"Rachel, don't," Quinn pleads softly.

"I vaguely remember her mentioning med school once or twice," Teresa recalls with a smile that Rachel is now absolutely going to call fond. Well—fond _ish_. "I'm glad to hear that worked out for her."

"Oh, it really did. She's an excellent doctor." Her bedside manner might be slightly suspect, but the doctoring itself is definitely excellent. "I'm certain that she'd love to see you again. Would you mind very much if we told her where you're working now?" Rachel presses, already busy plotting ways to get Santana to—where did Teresa say she was working again? Weather something. The woman apparently has a fondness for working at weather themed bars.

"Please don't answer that," Quinn instructs quickly.

Rachel frowns at her wife. "Quinn!"

"Teresa, it's been so nice to see you again, but we should probably let you get back to your opening now," Quinn says determinedly, slipping her fingers in between Rachel's and getting a firm grip on her hand as she takes a step away from Teresa.

"But Quinn," Rachel protests, attempting to stop her.

"You really are very talented," Quinn directs at Teresa, interrupting Rachel's objection.

"Thanks," Teresa mumbles, her expression more than a little befuddled.

Rachel scowls, refusing to be deterred from her mission. "We'd like to buy this painting," she practically shouts in desperation, digging in her heels.

Quinn sighs, cutting her sharp eyes to Rachel before she flashes a saccharine smile at Teresa. "Would you mind excusing us for a moment?" she asks with forced pleasantry.

Teresa regards them both with barely concealed wariness. "Um…no, not at all."

"Thank you," Quinn mutters before she pulls Rachel several feet away into an unoccupied corner, dropping her hand as she turns to face her. "What are you doing?" she hisses.

Rachel clicks her tongue. "Really, Quinn? I am attempting to purchase a piece of art."

"You're attempting to set Santana up on another blind date," Quinn accuses, arching that damned eyebrow of hers.

"Don't be ridiculous," Rachel scoffs, crossing her arms. "It's hardly a blind date when Santana already knows Teresa."

"You promised her you would stop," Quinn reminds her, crossing her own arms to mirror her wife.

Rachel deflates a little at that, because she _had_ said _something_ to that effect—after Santana had threatened to give Rachel that nose job that she'd briefly considered back in high school with her fist if she didn't stop playing matchmaker _._ Really, you set up one or two (or four) unsuccessful chance meetings and suddenly everyone's a critic.

"Yes, but…this is different," she reasons. "It's _Teresa_. I already know that Santana is attracted to her." The woman had spent well over a year trying to sweet talk Teresa into a sexual assignation—well, the often crude innuendos that pass for sweet talk with Santana. "She'd agree to a date in a heartbeat."

Quinn sighs, her face softening. "You don't know that," she challenges gently. "Your meddling with Kurt might have worked out for the best, but I doubt Santana will be as accommodating."

A pleased smile pulls at Rachel's lips at the mention of Kurt, who just happens to be in his second month of an increasingly serious relationship with one of his old flames, Harry Jordan. Rachel had immediately recognized the man when she and Quinn had gone looking for an accountant to help them merge the last of their separate assets, so of course she'd encouraged Kurt to give him a call. Kurt was single and far less eager to mingle, and Harry was single and far removed from his days on the Fordham swim team, so it only made sense for them to see if the spark was still there. Rachel is happy to take credit for giving them a little (or maybe actually very persistent) push in the right direction. Why shouldn't she do the same for Santana and Teresa? Meeting the woman here tonight is positively serendipitous.

"And anyway, assuming that Teresa is even available," Quinn continues, oblivious to Rachel's train of thought, "what makes you think that _she_ would agree? I clearly remember her shooting down every one of Santana's half-assed attempts to get into her pants."

"Exactly," Rachel exclaims with a smirk. "She already has a built in tolerance for Santana's…distinctive personality," she explains tactfully. "That's half the battle."

"That makes absolutely no sense," Quinn mutters with a perplexed frown.

"It can't hurt to ask her, Quinn," Rachel wheedles, determined to win Quinn's support. Santana finally seems to be over her desire for meaningless hookups, and she's mentioned more than once that she wants to be in a relationship again, but she's still unattached despite throwing herself back into the dating pool. She's also still showing up at their apartment to mooch food at least once a week, so finding her a girlfriend is really a win-win proposition for all of them at this point.

Quinn purses her lips. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

Rachel reaches out to play with the buttons on Quinn's open, faux-leather coat, gazing up at her wife with pleading eyes. "MmmMm," she hums in denial, biting into her lip to adorn her best pitiful pout.

Quinn glances up at the ceiling, shaking her head. "I still think it's a terrible idea," she feels the need to voice, but her tone and expression are resigned.

Rachel releases a muted squeal of delight, bouncing on her toes as she grins at her wife. "Duly noted."

Quinn's eyebrow inches up again. "And we're buying that painting."

Rachel's grin fades just a little. "Oh…okay," she agrees slowly, not having quite anticipated that they'd actually have to make that particular purchase. "Wait," she hesitates, frowning in sudden concern, "you do mean Teresa's painting, right? Not the pornographic one?"

"You're scheming to set the woman up with Santana," Quinn points out sardonically. "The least we can do is buy her painting."

Rachel really has no argument for that, and _Fermata_ is a nice enough painting _._ Nodding her agreement, they make their way back over to Teresa, whom Rachel is pleasantly surprised to find still waiting for them. She's either more interested than she'll admit in discovering more information about Santana or she really wants to sell her painting. Rachel is choosing to believe it's the former.

"Back again?" Teresa asks in mild amusement.

"We _are_ interested in the painting," Rachel begins to be certain that she has Teresa's undivided attention, "but we also have a question."

"Actually, _Rachel_ has the question," Quinn clarifies, absolving herself of culpability should this venture go poorly, and Rachel sends her a reproachful look. She could have sworn their marriage vows included a pledge of unconditional support in every endeavor—if it wasn't stated explicitly, then it certainly should have been.

"I'll be happy to answer any questions you have," Teresa offers agreeably.

Rachel decides to take the direct route before Quinn waylays her again. "Would you be interested in dating our friend Santana?"

Teresa's smile freezes in place. "That's…not a question about the painting," she mutters, clearly taken aback.

"Just tell her _no_ , and we can all forget this ever happened," Quinn advises helpfully.

"Quinn, don't discourage her!" Rachel exclaims, lightly stomping her foot.

"Wait," Teresa interrupts, holding up a hand as her eyes dart back and forth between them in confusion. "Are you or are you not actually interested in buying the painting?"

"We are," Quinn assures her. "Rachel is buying it for me."

" _I_ am?" Rachel questions in surprise. Quinn arches an eyebrow in challenge, and her lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk. "Oh, I _am_ , yes," she confirms with a wide (only slightly inauthentic) smile. "It's a wonderful painting." And it is, even if it is a little on the _moody_ side. "We have the perfect spot for it on our living room wall."

"Okay," Teresa says slowly, still eyeing them both suspiciously.

"My wife is trying to set you up on a blind date with Santana," Quinn explains to expedite the process.

"But technically _not_ a blind date," Rachel hurries to clarify, "because you already know each other."

"Which is why we'll understand completely when you say _no_ ," Quinn adds with a smirk.

"But we're hoping that you'll at least consider it," Rachel continues, determined to get in the last word to counter her wife's cynicism. "Santana really does have a number of good qualities that tend to get lost beneath her…larger-than-life persona."

"And the notches on her bedpost, I'm sure," Teresa drawls skeptically, crossing her arms.

Rachel frowns, feeling suddenly protective of Santana, even if Teresa is technically correct about the number of conquests under Santana's belt—quite literally. "I can assure you that she has sown all of her wild oats. She's ready to settle down and be in a serious, committed relationship."

Teresa's disbelieving gaze shifts to Quinn. "Is she for real?"

"Rachel or Santana?" Quinn asks with amusement evident in her tone.

"Both."

"The answer is _yes_. To both," Quinn responds assuredly.

"Did I mention that Santana is a doctor?" Rachel intentionally queries, hoping to provide some more incentive for Teresa to give their friend a chance.

Teresa laughs, and the sound is unexpectedly light. "Yeah, you did."

"So, are you at all interested in seeing her again?" Quinn asks seriously, and Rachel is grateful for her assistance—woefully late though it is.

Teresa remains silent for several excruciating moments as she quietly considers them both, finally shaking her head and reaching into the side pocket of her vest to pull out a business card that's decorated with a tiny, colorful image that looks similar to the paintings on the wall. "Give her my card and tell her she can call me if she wants."

Rachel manages to contain her shout of victory—barely—but she can't quite resist a small bit of boasting. "I _knew_ there was a spark there," she crows, reaching out to snag the business card before Teresa can change her mind. "Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me yet," Teresa warns her with a meaningful smile. "I'm only agreeing to talk to her, not date her. And only because I'm mildly curious what she's been up to since the last time she hit on me."

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised," Rachel informs her, safely tucking card with Teresa's number into her coat pocket. She can't wait to give it to Santana.

"We'll see," Teresa murmurs neutrally. "Now…about the painting…"

When they finally leave the gallery, Rachel is about two thousand dollars poorer, but she's happy for the chance to prove to everyone, once and for all, that she is actually _good_ at this matchmaking thing. Quinn is happy with the painting scheduled to be delivered to their apartment by this weekend, and Rachel is certain that Santana will be happy with the business card featuring Teresa the bartender's phone number and an invitation to call her.

"You're pretty proud of yourself right now, aren't you?" Quinn muses as they step back out into the frigid night air.

Rachel burrows more deeply into her coat, stuffing her hands in her pocket as her eyes roam over the street in a fruitless search for a taxi. "I think the painting will look lovely on our wall. That empty spot behind the sofa really has been in dire need of _something_ to dress it up."

Quinn chuckles and wraps an arm around Rachel, pulling her closer, and Rachel is grateful for even the tiniest bit of extra protection against the wind. "I meant getting Teresa's phone number. Again," she adds with feigned annoyance.

Rachel flashes a smug smile at her wife. She won't deny that she's pretty pleased with the accomplishment. "I guess I'm simply irresistible."

Quinn shakes her head. "I'll remember you said that when Santana is once again threatening to punch you in the nose for interfering in her personal life."

"I don't think she will this time," Rachel argues. "Not when she knows that I'm setting her up with her bartender."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "You do realize that, regardless of whatever attraction might have existed between those two before, this whole thing still has the potential to go very, very badly. You don't even know that they'll have anything in common."

An incredulous laughs slips past Rachel's lips. "Has Santana actually had anything in common with _anyone_ that she's dated? Other than sex," she amends quickly, thinking about a few of those women that had been in and out of Santana's life—or rather, _bed_ —who had been frighteningly similar to her in certain regards. Jessica Foster springs to mind.

"Brittany," Quinn offers by way of an answer. Rachel refrains from commenting on how little those two actually seemed to have in common outside of their shared love for cheerleading and taunting their less popular classmates, but she can't deny that the relationship had worked for them for an impressively long period of time.

"First loves don't count, especially ones of the high school variety," Rachel dismisses, evading the compatibility issue entirely. "Hardly anyone knows what they really want at that age. Finn and I were a prime example of that."

Quinn frowns, slowing her steps. "You were _my_ first love," she reminds Rachel softly. "What does that say about me?"

Delight tickles Rachel's belly at the predictable admission, and she stops walking, maneuvering around to face Quinn before snuggling into her familiar embrace and gazing up at her beautiful wife. "Obviously, you're the exception. You were much more mature than the rest of us and knew exactly what you wanted from a very young age. You also have extremely good taste," she adds with a cheeky grin.

Quinn laughs, sending hazy puffs of breath swirling like smoke around her head. Her arms tighten around Rachel's waist and pull her closer, warming Rachel's chilled body. "I do," she agrees easily. "And thank God you finally developed some too."

Rachel feels obliged to make a soft noise of protest, but she knows that Quinn's joking comment isn't very far removed from the truth. There are so many things that Rachel absolutely adores now that she hadn't yet discovered or fully appreciated when she was younger, and her gorgeous, sexy wife is certainly the most important one of them all.

With any luck, Santana will eventually have her own (not nearly as gorgeous or sexy) wife to appreciate. One who will hopefully feed her and entertain her and keep her from showing up at their apartment unannounced at the most inconvenient times— _oh_ , and love and cherish her too, of course. And if Rachel gets to claim permanent bragging rights for introducing Santana to the future Mrs. Doctor Lopez, then even better.

But right now, she's more than happy to claim bragging rights for being intelligent enough to marry Quinn Fabray.

"Speaking of taste, I believe you owe me a dinner, Mrs. Fabray," Rachel prompts. "Preferably some place warm."

"Warm _and_ vegan," Quinn promises with a smile. "And only three blocks away."

Rachel frowns slightly. "Does that mean you're going to make me walk?"

"It will probably be faster than flagging down a taxi," Quinn concedes apologetically. "But I promise to personally warm up every inch of your body when we get home," she purrs huskily.

The sultry tone of Quinn's voice and the images that her words create do a surprisingly effective job of heating up Rachel's blood just enough to make a three-block walk seem like it's not the worst idea in the world—especially when the New York taxi cabs are uncharacteristically elusive on this street. "Let's go before we freeze to the sidewalk," she commands, slipping out of Quinn's arms and practically dragging her into motion. "I need all of your extremities to be fully functional for later."

"Oh, they will be," Quinn assures her, holding up her hand to wiggle her leather-encased fingers. " _I_ remembered to wear gloves."

"If I wasn't so incredibly fond of your hands, I'd be very annoyed with you right now," Rachel pouts.

Quinn chuckles, reaching across her body to cup Rachel's bare hand between both of hers. "My hands are pretty fond of you too, sweetheart…as are certain other parts of me. Like every other part of me," Quinn clarifies sweetly.

Rachel sighs through a happy smile, feeling a little bit warmer despite the cold weather threatening to turn them both into human icicles. No, this hadn't been her first choice of how to spend the evening, but Quinn will always be her only choice of who to spend it with, and regardless of how well her attempt at matchmaking for Santana turns out, Rachel knows that she's found her own perfect match in Quinn. When she gets it right, she really gets it right.


	2. And I Am Getting Older

**Part II: And I Am Getting Older**

* * *

"I'm here," Santana announces the second the door swings open, breezing into the Fabray's apartment like she lives there—and really, she's practically family anyway, so hell yeah, she she's gonna make herself at home. "Let's eat."

Quinn rolls her eyes as she pushes the door closed. "Hello, Santana. How are you? My day was lovely. Thanks for asking."

Santana rolls her eyes right back. "Yeah, that's great, Quinn. My day sucked donkey balls." She briefly eyes the weird painting that's newly appeared on the wall behind the sofa before she flops down onto the comfy cushions and props up her feet, sending their demon cat scampering off on his growly way. Good riddance. "I spent my morning elbow deep inside a cop whose heart exploded because he bags more donuts than criminals," she announces, secretly reveling in the matching expressions of disgust on her friends' faces. "I managed to keep him from dying on my table. Thanks for asking." And really, she's pretty damned proud of that fact.

"As happy as we are to hear that you saved a life today, Santana, perhaps you could have phrased that in a way that was slightly less graphic," Rachel suggests around her grimace. "Especially right before dinner."

Santana shrugs indifferently. "Hey, I can't help it that you have a weak-ass constitution. I happen to have a cast iron stomach to match my abs of steel," she smooths a hand over her shirt to show off those abs, "and I haven't seen a crumb of food since the stale bagel I had at four o'clock this morning. I'm starving, so feed me."

She's been looking forward to this dinner since they'd invited her three days ago. For the last week and a half, her diet has consisted of nothing but greasy takeout and shitty coffee in between fifteen hour trauma shifts, and she's ready to relax, catch up with her friends, and eat a decent, home-cooked meal for a change.

"Well, the salad is ready," Quinn tells her as she pads to the kitchen. "But you'll have to wait another fifteen minutes for the enchiladas."

"There's actual meat in mine, right?" Santana is quick to ask. She's not here for any of that vegetarian crap.

"Of course," Rachel confirms with a resigned sigh.

"And Quinn made them?"

Rachel huffs. "She did, but I made the salad."

Santana shrugs and pushes herself up from the sofa. "I suppose you can't burn lettuce. I'll take it."

Three places are already set at the table, and Quinn is setting the salad down in the center while Rachel walks over to the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of wine and a Corona. Santana falls into her usual seat, ready to dig in. As much as she likes to whine about Rachel's vegetarianism threatening her carnivorous ways, she can't deny that the salad looks incredibly delicious—fresh and overflowing with a variety of ingredients. Or maybe she's just hungry enough to eat whatever they throw down in front of her.

Rachel places the bottle of Corona on the table, complete with a slice of lime already wedged into the opening, and Santana breathes out a grateful, "Thanks," before she squeezes the lime into the bottle and takes a long drink, closing her eyes in satisfaction as the flavor explodes on her tongue. Man, she really needed that. It's been such a long, fucking day.

Santana does refrain from digging into the salad right away and instead sits back and watches as Quinn and Rachel work to prepare the final touches of their dinner. It's like a choreographed dance, and she kind of envies how perfectly in sync they seem to be while doing the most mundane tasks. She remembers a long ago picnic when Josie Deveraux had sat watching them interact, saying _I want that_ , and while Santana had certainly understood the sentiment at the time, these days she's really _feeling_ it. She wants this—wants someone to be perfectly in sync with. She figures that she'll get it eventually. Dr. Santana Lopez is a fucking catch, after all.

Soon enough, they're all sitting down to enjoy their dinner, but halfway through the enchiladas—cheese for Rachel and beef for Santana and Quinn, bless her stubbornly meat-loving heart—Rachel decides that the thirty second lull in the conversation is simply unacceptable and must be filled with some mindless chatter.

"So, Quinn and I went to this art thing last week."

Santana grunts around a mouthful of rice. "I guess that explains the creepy painting."

"It's not creepy!" Rachel immediately defends.

"It's moody," Quinn offers as she reaches for her glass of wine.

"If your mood is depressed as fuck," Santana counters, although she's not really surprised that Rachel would be attracted to the image of an abandoned theatre that appears to be haunted by the _Phantom of the Opera_.

Quinn grins at Rachel over her wine. "She probably would have preferred _Resplendence_."

"You don't _hate_ it though, do you?" Rachel presses. "I mean, it's a perfectly lovely painting despite its slightly dark composition."

Santana studies her with increasing suspicion. "Why do you care if I like your painting?"

"She doesn't," Quinn responds with an amused smile.

"Of course I do, Quinn," Rachel argues, but her tone is all wrong—almost guilty.

"Just tell her and get it over with," Quinn urges.

"Get what over with?" Santana demands, suddenly recognizing the prickle of dread on the back of her neck that precedes most of Rachel's crazier antics.

"Well, you see," Rachel begins innocently, "we happened to meet the artist the night that we bought it, and we had a very nice conversation with her."

It's the _her_ that snaps everything into focus. "Oh, hell no!" Santana refuses, dropping her fork noisily against the plate and leaning back in her chair with her arms stubbornly crossed. "I told you no more blind dates," she reminds Rachel heatedly before turning to Quinn. "I told her that, right?" She knows that she's been pretty sleep-deprived lately, but she's damn sure that she wasn't dreaming her abject refusal to let Rachel set her up with anymore _nice_ ladies.

"You did," Quinn confirms with a nod.

"This is different," Rachel insists.

"Look, Yente¹, your taste in women sucks," Santana informs her point blank before glancing at Quinn with an apologetic shrug. "No offense, Q."

"Gee, how could I ever be offended by that?" Quinn replies sarcastically.

"I have excellent taste in women," Rachel insists.

"Well, it's obviously better than your taste in guys," Santana concedes in light of the fact that she did manage to bag and tag Quinn Fabray, "but you've still got no gaydar. The last woman you tried to hook me up with was aggressively heterosexual."

The entire surprise brunch date that Rachel had roped Santana into under false pretenses and then bailed on with a totally fake emergency after introducing her to her dental hygienist had been a complete disaster. Santana had felt like she was going to get slapped at any moment for being one of those predatory lesbians that parents warn their straight daughters about.

Rachel's eyes dart away guiltily. "It was a perfectly natural mistake," she insists, blushing slightly. "Amber never mentioned any boyfriends and was constantly saying how much she missed her gal pal back in Tennessee. How was I supposed to know that she actually meant _gal pal_ in the completely un-ironic way?"

Quinn laughs, and even Santana can't quite stifle her grin, but still, "You'd have known that _if_ you had a gaydar."

"She was the only one I got wrong."

"You got them _all_ wrong," Santana growls.

Rachel lifts her chin defiantly. "Stacy is gay."

Santana barks out a laugh at the mention of the woman who works as an assistant to Rachel's agent and _just happened_ to show up one day when Santana had been here. Admittedly, Stacy had seemed sweet at that first meeting, and she'd certainly had a nice body and a pretty face, so Santana hadn't been completely averse to going out with her. But, "Stacy is a freak. She asked me if I'd ever had a threesome with you, and when I told her _hell no_ , she asked if I'd at least gotten to watch."

"At least we found out that she actually has a crush on both of us. _Together_ ," Quinn stresses, grinning at Rachel.

"See." Santana waves a hand in Quinn's direction for effect as she stares Rachel down. "Freak." And it was kind of shame because, other than her weird sexual fascination with Santana's best friends, Stacy had been totally bangable.

"Fine," Rachel sighs with a frown. "I'll concede that both Amber and Stacy were slight miscalculations on my part, but Melissa and Doris were both lovely women."

"Melissa called me a bitch," Santana mutters with a scowl. "And Doris was about as exciting as her name. I mean, really, who the hell names their kid _Doris_ anymore?"

"Obviously, Melissa had a point," Quinn comments dryly.

"Yeah, well, that was no excuse for _her_ to be a bitch about it," Santana grumbles. "Just face it, Rachel, you suck at matchmaking."

"Well, maybe you just suck at dating," Rachel accuses defensively.

 _Oh no she didn't!_ "I do just fine when you're not sabotaging me with random ass women that I would never date."

"Sex isn't dating," Rachel scoffs, purposely dredging up that particular ghost from Santana's past.

"No shit," Santana snaps. "Sex is more fun."

"See, that's your problem," Rachel declares, pointing a finger at her. "You claim to want a relationship, but you need to build a solid foundation first. That means _dating_ , having meaningful conversations and showing genuine interest a woman's opinions and needs. _Before_ you jump into bed with her."

"Madre de Dios, when did you turn into the fucking love doctor?" Santana spits, tossing her napkin onto the table. She came here for the free food, not the unsolicited advice on her love life.

"Look, Santana," Quinn finally chimes in, sending a look at Rachel that Santana chooses to interpret as _please stop talking now_ —until Quinn goes and mucks it up. "Rachel isn't entirely wrong. With the exception of Brittany, you've never really bothered to put much effort into the more romantic nuances of wooing a woman."

"Wooing?" Santana repeats incredulously. "Seriously? Did we just time jump back into the eighteenth century?"

Quinn's eyebrow arches in challenge. "Make fun all you want, but I'm the one with the gorgeous, talented, very sexy wife."

"You're so getting lucky later," Rachel murmurs with a lustful grin that Quinn returns in full.

Santana groans. "Yeah, my dinner's about to come back up. Thanks." This is the problem with having sappily married friends—suddenly they think they know what you need better than you do.

Quinn shakes her head. "All I'm saying is that if you're serious about meeting a woman you can have something more than sex with, it's probably going to take more than one date before you figure it out, so maybe you should stop looking for reasons to avoid a second date and actually put some effort into getting to know these women before you write them off for shallow reasons. Like, I don't know, having an old-fashioned name," she suggests pointedly.

Santana refuses to acknowledge that Quinn might have even the tiniest of points. "Hey, I could've had a second date with Stacy. Hell, I could've had anything I wanted if I'd told her I'd been the salsa in between your taco shells."

"Can we please forget about Stacy?" Rachel begs.

"Happily," Santana agrees, reaching for her bottle of beer. "In fact, I'll be happy to forget this whole damn conversation." With any luck, the beer will help wash it away from her memory forever.

Rachel sighs dramatically. "Well, if you insist. I'm certain that Teresa won't even think twice if you don't call her."

Santana swallows her beer, nodding in approval at Rachel's surrender. "Good, that's…wait," she trails off, processing the name that had fallen so casually from Rachel's lips. "Teresa?"

Rachel shrugs. "But you're not interested."

"I'm not…?" Santana turns to look at Quinn, doing her best to ignore the shit-eating grin she finds there. "Is she talking about Teresa-with-the-fantastic-ass Teresa?"

"I wouldn't say her ass was all that fantastic," Quinn denies, glancing at her wife for confirmation. "What do you think, Rach?"

Rachel looks like the fucking cat that ate the cream as she carelessly sips her wine. "It's nothing compared to yours, baby."

" _My_ Teresa?" Santana asks again, not quite able to believe that they mean who she thinks they mean.

"She's hardly _yours_ , Santana," Rachel chastises. "And since you're not inclined to let me set you up with anyone again, I suppose I can shred her business card." She lifts her hand to reveal a colorful, little card held loosely between her fingers—seriously, where the hell did that even come from? Did she pull it out of thin air? Was she hiding it under her plate? What the hell?

"She gave you her fucking number?" Santana questions disbelievingly, leaning forward across the table with her eyes narrowed on that card. "Again!"

Rachel shrugs, skillfully palming the card so it disappears from Santana's view once again. "But you don't want it."

Santana grits her teeth and deliberately turns to Quinn. "I hate your wife."

Quinn chuckles. "No, you don't."

Santana huffs—because _no_ , she doesn't. "Give me the card," she demands, holding out her hand to Rachel.

Rachel flashes a triumphant smile. "What was that?" she teases, turning her head like she didn't quite catch Santana's submission. "I don't think I heard you."

Santana sucks in a fortifying breath to keep from slapping the frustrating woman. "Give me. The freaking. Card," she repeats clearly. "Please!"

Rachel grins, flipping the card back into her fingers before dropping it into Santana's waiting palm. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist this one."

Santana immediately turns the card over in her hands, taking in the artsy design and the flowing name announcing that— _yeah_ —Teresa, whose last name is apparently Rinaldi, actually did give Rachel her phone number for the second time. "Teresa the bartender really wants to go out with me?"

"It's Teresa the _artist_ now," Rachel corrects, pointing in the direction of the living room. "So you might want to learn to love that painting."

"And her wanting to go out with you might be overstating it just a smidge," Quinn cautions.

Santana frowns at them. "So…what? You're just screwing around with me?"

Rachel shakes her head. "We're not. Teresa didn't precisely agree to a date upfront, but she is interested in hearing from you. I think she might have even been remorseful that she never had the chance to tell you she was leaving Ten Degrees. If you can manage to convey your genuine interest in getting to know her outside of a bedroom, I think she'll absolutely go out with you."

Santana sags against her chair. "So…I need to fake it," she translates, only partially joking.

Quinn hisses out a frustrated breath and reaches across the table to smack Santana's shoulder, glaring at her in a way that makes her feel like she's back at the bottom of the pyramid and about to be ordered to run laps for mouthing off to her captain. "You need to stop thinking with your pussy," Quinn berates her, and Santana has to admit that she's kind of impressed that word is even in Quinn's vocabulary. "Rachel and I promised Teresa that you were serious about meeting someone, so if you're not you can just give us back that card right now."

"I am, okay," Santana confirms quickly, tucking the card into her bra for safekeeping. "It's just…maybe you're right…about the romance thing," she reluctantly admits, averting her eyes so she doesn't have to look at them while she forces out the confession. "I might be a little out of practice." And she might—just _might_ —have taken most of her cues in the romance department from Brittany. The women she's gone out with since haven't really required much attention outside of her bed.

"Well, luckily for you, I'm a very good teacher," Quinn boasts.

"You?" Santana challenges on a laugh.

Quinn holds up her left hand, flashing her wedding rings. "Married." She curls her fingers down and jerks her still extended thumb towards Rachel. "Gorgeous, sexy wife."

"Quinn is incredibly romantic, Santana," Rachel verifies. "In and out of the bedroom. It wouldn't hurt to take a few pointers from her."

Santana rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. "How is this even my life now?"

"I'll have you quoting poetry in no time," Quinn promises.

Santana doesn't see that happening anytime soon. "Does that lame shit really work for you?"

Quinn shares an intimate look with Rachel. "Like a dream."

Yeah—Santana figures she's better off not knowing what Q-ball and her chain get up to behind closed doors. She sure as hell doesn't need any pointers from the former president of the Celibacy Club on how to impress a woman. She presses a hand to her chest, feeling the promising scrape of Teresa's phone number against her skin, and a slow smile curls on her lips. Maybe Rachel doesn't have such terrible taste after all.

 _xx_

It takes Santana two days to dial Teresa's number. She isn't nervous or anything pathetic like that—she's just been exhausted from her schedule at the hospital and wants to be fully awake and at her sharpest when she makes that phone call. Teresa did used to have that annoying habit of being stubbornly resistant to Santana's typical charms, and okay—maybe Quinn and Rachel have a point about the whole romance before sex thing. Santana knows that she at least needs to make some attempt to dial back on the sexual innuendos that just pop out of her mouth without her even thinking about them if she wants to win a date with Teresa.

The call picks up on the third ring with a businesslike, _"Teresa Rinaldi speaking."_

The smooth, faintly accented voice slips into Santana's ear and tickles against her memory, calling up the image of blue eyes and a sensual mouth drawn into a sardonic grin. "Um…hey, Teresa. This is Santana. Lopez," she clarifies, rolling her eyes at her own hesitant greeting. "I got your number from Rachel Berry."

There's a short pause, and Santana almost expects to hear the dial tone at the end of it, but instead she receives an amused, _"Yeah, I remember. My tip jar has really missed you."_

Santana grins, falling onto her sofa and relaxing—she absolutely wasn't pacing around her apartment like a nervous virgin on her wedding night. "Well, you did kind of disappear on me without a goodbye."

" _Sorry about that. I told Eddie to let my regulars know where I'd gone, but I guess he didn't get the message to everyone."_

Santana doesn't know if she would have really considered herself a regular, especially after she'd gotten bogged down by her clinical rotations, but she chooses to take that as an admission that Teresa had actually wanted Santana to be able to follow her to her new place. "Quinn mentioned you were still tending bar. Weather Up, right?"

" _Yeah. I'm usually there at least four nights a week. What about you? What have you been up to, Santana?"_

Teresa sounds genuinely interested in the answer, so Santana filters out all the potentially crude responses that fly through her head. "Oh, you know. Saving lives, looking sexy in scrubs, living on shitty coffee and eight hours of sleep a week. The usual."

There's a hum of interest on the other end of the line. _"Rachel told me that you're a full-fledged doctor now."_

"Yeah, I'm doing my surgical residency at Presby," Santana elaborates, figuring that it can't hurt to mention that she's a surgeon. A lot of ladies find that kind of impressive, and Santana has no problem using all of her available assets to score a date.

" _I only know the bare minimum about residency. Am I supposed to offer congratulations or condolences?"_ Teresa asks in a teasing tone.

Santana laughs, leaning her head against the back of the sofa. "Either one would probably be appropriate at this point."

" _Then congratulations,"_ Teresa offers sincerely. _"From what I remember, med school was one of the things you were really serious about."_ And Santana is secretly impressed that Teresa bothered to remember that about her. _"You have to be pretty dedicated to take on a high stress career like that."_

"Nah, I'm totally in it for the money," Santana jokes. "In twenty years, I might even pay off med school." Teresa's answering laughter is rich and deep, and Santana decides that she likes the sound of it.

"So, I saw your painting," she reveals, changing the subject. "It's…interesting. I guess the art thing is working out for you." There's another chuckle that's kind of smoky, and yeah—Santana _really_ likes _that_.

" _Well, I obviously haven't quit my day job yet…or night job, I guess,"_ Teresa corrects herself with humor _. "Did you actually_ like _the painting, or are you just trying to butter me up?"_

 _Damn. Busted._ "That depends," Santana hedges. "Are you gonna hang up on me if I give the wrong answer?"

That chuckle vibrates against her ear again, and Teresa sounds pretty unconcerned when she says, _"So you didn't like it."_

"I didn't hate it," Santana assures her. "It's just not really something I'd hang on my wall, but Quinn and Rachel are totally into that shi…stuff," she quickly amends, shaking her head. It wouldn't be good to refer to Teresa's art as _shit_. "I legit think you've got talent though. I went on the gallery's website and looked at some of your other paintings, and I like a lot of them. Like, that one of the kid in the park," she mentions, envisioning the bright colors and simple composition that made her feel kind of warm and happy. "That one I'd hang up."

There's another significant silence, and Santana frowns, wondering what she'd said wrong. _"You looked up my work?"_ is asked with a trace of surprise.

"Well, yeah," Santana answers in bemusement. Of course, she'd done her research before she'd called. She'd also googled Teresa's name and gone looking for her Facebook page, but she decides not to mention that part.

Teresa clears her throat _. "Well, if you really like it, I'm pretty sure that painting hasn't been sold yet."_ And the teasing tone is back in her voice.

It's Santana's turn to pause before she warily asks, "How much are we talking? Because I'm not exactly rolling in the money yet." Thank God for her papi's financial help during school, or she'd be so much worse off. She's rewarded with another rumble of laughter that makes her grin.

" _I won't make you buy one of my paintings. At least, not until after the first date."_

"First date?" Santana repeats, sitting up at attention.

" _Isn't that why you called? To ask me out?"_

"Well, yeah," Santana admits, ignoring the way her heart feels like it's beating just a little faster. "But I figured I'd have to work a little harder to get you to agree."

" _You didn't lead with any sexual innuendos, you looked up my art, and you were honest about what you thought of it. At least, I think you were. Your friends obviously care a lot about you, so yeah…I'd like to maybe meet you for coffee somewhere and see how it goes."_

"Yeah?" Santana breathes out in awe.

" _Yes,"_ Teresa confirms without hesitation.

Santana pumps a fist in the air, smiling in triumph. Of course, she keeps her voice cool and unaffected as she closes the deal. "My schedule is kind of crazy for the next couple of days. How about Wednesday afternoon? Maybe 2:00?"

" _That works for me. There's a Café Grumpy on West 20th in Chelsea. They make a pretty decent latte."_

"I'll be there."

And she is.

Santana wouldn't say it's with bells on, because that's fucking dorky, but she does find the place without too much trouble and, after ordering herself a macchiato, grabs a table facing the door at 1:47. Yeah, so she's early. So what?

At 2:06, she's nursing the last of her lukewarm macchiato and alternating between staring at the door and checking her phone. She might also be plotting her revenge against Rachel if Teresa has decided to blow her off. She's not sure why it really matters—she hasn't seen Teresa in years, and despite assurances from both Rachel and Quinn that the woman is still incredibly attractive, Santana has no idea if she actually wants to date her. Sure, she remembers enjoying the thrill of the chase and the occasional banter, but Santana isn't really the same person she was back then. And actually, that's probably why this _does_ matter to her. Regardless of whether or not she still feels a spark with Teresa, she wants to prove that she isn't the same woman that Teresa had quickly and correctly pegged as not being interested in more than a quick mattress mambo.

It's 2:08 when Santana notices the brunette headed for the door, bundled up in a black, hooded coat, and she perks up, letting her eyes rake over the familiar form. Damn, Quinn and Rachel weren't bullshitting her about Teresa's hotness factor. Even with the winter coat covering her torso and thighs, Santana can tell that the years have been really good to her. She stands up from her chair as Teresa enters the coffee shop, noticing the way blue eyes briefly slide over her body before settling back on her face. Santana grins at the obvious perusal.

Teresa returns her smile, unbuttoning her coat as she makes her way to the table.

"Hey," Santana says in lieu of a proper greeting. She's not sure if she's supposed to shake Teresa's hand or wave or what, and going for a hug would probably be way too forward, so she just kind of gestures to the chair. "Have a seat."

"Thanks." Teresa shrugs out of her coat before she sits, revealing a tailored plaid button-down over skintight blue jeans—and yeah, Santana definitely still feels that familiar buzz of attraction.

"I was starting to think you were gonna stand me up," Santana admits, sinking back into her own chair and curling her hands around her coffee cup to keep them occupied.

"Sorry. The trains were running pretty slow today," Teresa explains, rubbing her hands together to warm them.

"You don't live in Chelsea?"

Teresa shakes her head. "No. I spend a lot of time at the galleries here, but I actually live in Brooklyn."

"That's a commute," Santana observes. The gallery that Teresa is affiliated with is in Chelsea, and the bar she works at is in Tribeca, so she'd figured Teresa probably lived somewhere in Manhattan.

"It's really not that bad, and I like Brooklyn."

Santana can hear the trace of an urban accent in Teresa's words and wonders if she's a native New Yorker or if she picked it up by living in Brooklyn. She's pretty sure it was there four years ago too.

"So, what's your poison?" Santana asks. "Coffee's on me."

"You don't have to do that," Teresa objects.

"It's not like it's gonna break the bank," Santana assures her. "So what'll it be? Cappuccino? Latte?"

Teresa smiles, leaning back in her chair. "Mocha, please."

Santana nods and stands, making her way back to the counter, and she might add a little more sway to her steps than is strictly necessary, just in case Teresa wants to check out the view. After she places the order—a mocha for Teresa and another macchiato for herself—she glances back over her shoulder to see Teresa watching her with a faint smile. She chooses to take that as a good sign.

Collecting their coffee orders, Santana strides back to the table and sits, placing the mocha in front of Teresa, who accepts it with a grateful, "Thank you."

"No problem," Santana dismisses, watching Teresa take a tentative sip of her drink before she lowers the cup, closes her eyes in sensual appreciation, and licks the remnants of foam from her lips. Santana feels a reciprocal tug down low in her belly. Yeah—this behaving thing is only going to last so long if the woman keeps looking like a walking sex dream.

"So, does this coffee date get cut really short if I tell you how good you look?" she wants to know, deciding to get the rules established early.

Teresa's lips curve into a reluctant grin. "As long as you don't follow it up with how much better I'd look in your bed."

Santana smiles wolfishly at the image that pops into her head, unable to help herself. "I don't know. It's kind of hard to resist mentioning now that you've brought it up."

"I think you can manage if you really try," Teresa drawls, but there's clear amusement twinkling in her eyes.

"I'm still kind of surprised you agreed to meet me, to be honest," Santana admits. "I always got the impression you weren't all that into me."

"I wasn't into being one of your meaningless conquests. I'm still not, by the way," Teresa explains firmly, but then her mouth softens into an almost embarrassed smile. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't find you attractive." Santana smirks at the admission. "And the fact that you have friends who are so invested in your happiness makes me believe that there's more to you than a cocky attitude and a pair of nice boobs."

"Excuse me," Santana exclaims in mock indignation, rolling back her shoulders to display her breasts to their best advantage. "My boobs are more than nice. They're fucking spectacular."

Teresa chuckles, shaking her head. "And still nothing compared to your ego."

Santana shrugs and casually leans back in her chair. "Yeah, maybe. But you're the one that keeps bringing up my boobs in polite conversation, so you obviously like looking at them. You can't really blame me for claiming bragging rights on that front."

"Fine. I'll give you that one," Teresa concedes, a faint blush coloring her cheeks that Santana immediately notices. "So why are your friends trying to set you up anyway? You don't strike me as the kind of woman who has any trouble meeting other women."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Please. Ever since those two got hitched, Rachel's been on this kick to couple-up all of her friends so we can all be boring and play bridge together or something." And of course, Kurt had to go and reconnect with Harry after Rachel's _gentle_ encouragement, making Santana's single status even more glaringly obvious.

Teresa frowns. "So you're _not_ actually interested in meeting someone and eventually settling down."

"I didn't say that," Santana is quick to clarify. "Look, I didn't ask Rachel to start playing matchmaker. I mean, she claims I did, but I was drunk and don't remember it, so it didn't happen," she dismisses with a wave of her hand. She doesn't count Quinn as a reliable eyewitness either. "But honestly, with my schedule at the hospital and the depressing shit I see there, I haven't had a whole lot of opportunities lately to meet someone who'll want to stick around on my bitchier days. So when Rachel told me she had your number and you were single, I didn't say _no_." She's not a fucking idiot. You don't look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth—whatever the hell that even means.

"And can I just ask," Santana continues, allowing her curiosity get the better of her, "how in the hell are you still single anyway? You're sexy and shrewd, and apparently one of the hot, young artists to watch in New York City. You should have women lined up around the block. Or men too," she adds reluctantly. "If you're into that."

Teresa's lips curve again. "Aw, did you google my name and read that article in the _Times_?"

"Maybe," Santana mumbles, ducking her head and hoping that the prickle of heat on her cheeks and ears isn't as obvious as it feels. She knew that damned googling shit would get her into trouble.

Teresa laughs, and it sounds (and looks) even better than it did over the phone, but then she sobers. "I'm not so much _still_ single as single _again_. I got out of a pretty serious relationship about eight months ago."

"Ah…so you're rebounding," Santana realizes, more than a little disappointed.

"No," Teresa denies without hesitation. "I'm moving on. Admittedly, the fact that, from what I remember, you're pretty much the exact opposite of my ex might have influenced my decision to meet you just a little bit."

Santana isn't sure exactly how to take that revelation. "I sense a story."

"Mmm…yeah," Teresa confirms with a tiny frown. "But not one you're getting today."

"Fair enough," Santana submits, holding up her hands in surrender. "Does that mean I might get it someday?"

Teresa studies her through a guarded expression. "That depends," she finally says. "What exactly are you looking for here, Santana? Because I'm still not interested in being anyone's temporary distraction."

Santana crosses her arms defensively. "You think I'm still…what did you call me that one time?" she murmurs distractedly as the memory comes back into focus. "Don Juanita?"

Teresa cringes noticeably, looking remorseful. "Yeah, that was extremely rude on my part," she acknowledges. "I'm sorry."

Santana sighs. "Hey, I get it. I've been with a lot of ladies, and I had fun doing it. I'm not ashamed of that." She's not going to sweep any of her past deeds under the rug just to make someone else feel better. "I had my reasons for not wanting to get involved in a serious relationship before now, and you'd probably think they're lame, but whatever." She shrugs, uncrossing her arms and resting them on the table before she leans forward and unflinchingly meets Teresa's curious gaze.

"The truth is…it's never been easy for me let people get close." Brittany had slipped in under her defenses when she'd been a scared and uncertain kid eager for acceptance, making it impossible to ever keep her out, but most of the other people she really cares about these days, like Quinn and Rachel and even Kurt, have had to chip away at her trusty shield of sarcasm and insults inch by grueling inch.

"So yeah, I could tell you that I'm looking for a gorgeous woman with a great body and an even better sense of humor who'll cook me dinner and clean my apartment and cuddle with me after mind-blowing sex. But what I really need is someone who'll make me want to dig up all that squishy, emo crap that I keep buried way down deep and who won't let me get away with being a snarky bitch to avoid talk about shit. Because I will," she emphasizes, not wanting there to be any confusion or misunderstanding about that. Even on her sweetest days, whomever she ends up with is going to have to accept all of her, little personality quirks and all. "It's just what I do."

Teresa stares at her in silence for several moments, and Santana figures that's probably the end of this little not-so-blind date. This is the part where these so called _nice_ women that Rachel and Quinn keep insisting she needs usually decide that she's not worth the hassle.

"You do realize that telling a woman all of that on a first date probably won't get you a second," Teresa eventually responds.

Santana sighs in resignation. "Yeah, well…it's not like I can get away with pretending to be all sweet and romantic with you anyway."

Santana is surprised by the unexpected smile that Teresa flashes as she leans forward, bending her elbow against the table and propping her chin against her fist as she gazes at Santana. "Weirdly enough, I think that I actually find your brutal honesty to be one of your more appealing qualities."

Yeah—definitely unexpected. "More appealing than my boobs?" Santana wonders, opting for humor to mask her astonishment that Teresa is still sitting there, smiling at her.

"Yes," Teresa confirms, rolling her eyes in amusement.

Santana grins, leaning back in her chair again as the tension drains out of her. "Well, it _is_ one of my best attributes."

Teresa nods and drops her hand back to the table, still leaning forward with—and Santana swears she isn't imagining this—a flirtatious smile. "So, being brutally honest…did you agree to this date because you think it's possible that you could eventually want that….how did you phrase it...squishy, emo crap with me?" Teresa asks, echoing Santana's words. "Or because you might finally get me into bed?"

Santana takes a careful breath. If Teresa actually likes her brutal honesty, then she's just going to go with it. "Can't it be both?"

"Is it?" Teresa challenges.

"Seriously?" Santana counters with a smirk. "You let my crazy, disgustingly coupley friends pick you up in an art gallery on my behalf. I should fucking marry you just for that." She's mostly joking, but honestly—being with her means putting up with her insane, incredibly irritating, often invasive friends without complaint.

Teresa's laughter rings out through the coffee shop. "We should probably see how this dating thing works out first."

Santana arches an eyebrow. " _Dating_ , like more than this one?"

Teresa nods. "If this one keeps going well, then yeah."

Santana barks out an incredulous laugh. "You think _this_ is going well?" She's pretty much been the exact opposite of charming _or_ romantic since Teresa sat down. "Damn, maybe I will need to marry you after all."

Like, not for real or anything—not yet—but dating Teresa could definitely turn out to be a really good thing for Santana.

Fuck. Rachel will never let her forget that she actually got this one right.

* * *

¹Yente [ **yen-** _tuh_ ] - the matchmaker from _Fiddler On the Roof_


End file.
